


Bardo

by Darwin_xf



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s06e09 S.R. 819, F/M, Post-Episode: s07e17 All Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 21:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15324450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darwin_xf/pseuds/Darwin_xf
Summary: Fills a gap





	Bardo

**Author's Note:**

> I originally published this in March 2007.

__

He was dawdling in that bardo that  
divides waking consciousness from sleep,  
vaguely aware of his surroundings: his  
junky bedroom, dartboard, back issues of  
UFO Casebook, stratum of dress shirts  
draped over an uncomfortable chair. He  
was tired, but reluctant to let go of the here  
and now, her leg hooked over his hip, how  
salty and complex she smelled, the scritch  
of her pubic hair on his thigh where she  
opened against him like a wound, like a  
flower. She was immediate and real and  
he wanted to stay for a bit longer, but he  
was drifting out the window, moving out  
over the city, watching it decelerate and  
dim for the night. He climbed higher until  
the land was indistinct, then higher still,  
kicking out toward a beyond he couldn't  
completely imagine, as often as he'd tried.  
Next to him, Scully's breathing deepened  
as she too slid toward sleep, midnight.

It was where he had been dwelling that  
night a few weeks before, teetering  
between worlds, when he became aware  
of a presence in the bed next to him  
exerting a gravity all out of proportion to  
her mass, pulling him back toward where  
she was. He opened his eyes. Scully lay  
top of the covers, propped up on her  
elbow, watching him.

He had tucked her in with his ratty  
Navajo blanket on the couch a while  
before, which she'd shed. He figured  
she'd wake up with a stiff neck and head  
home without so much as leaving him a  
note dashed off in her doctor's script  
saying bye. Yet here she was, if he could  
believe it, slashed with moonlight filtering  
through the blinds, equal parts riddle,  
green cashmere, invitation. She blinked  
slowly. Once. Twice. The stillness she had  
grown to inhabit lately was palpable,  
somehow animal, the opposite of his  
frenetic speed. It grounded him utterly.

"Hello earthling," he said.

"Hey," she said back.

As she had moved toward him, he  
moved toward her. He closed the gap that  
remained between them, crooked his  
wrist behind her neck, found her mouth  
and sealed it with his own.

Monday, two weeks later, back at  
work after a weekend spent mostly in bed,  
working next to her but not being allowed  
to touch her for ten consecutive hours had  
been akin to some arcane, draconian  
deprivation torture. Since returning to his  
place they had remained in more or less  
constant contact, not bothering even to eat  
the burritos they had picked up on the way  
home, barely noticing their phones when  
they chirped. He was spent, just about to  
tumble into oblivion when he heard a  
tapping at his door. Soft, but unmistakable.

He suspected the downstairs  
neighbor. What was his name? Frank. A  
few minutes before his headboard had  
been slapping violently against the wall  
during one particularly vigorous and goal-  
oriented moment in their intimacy, one  
more thing to which they had remained  
oblivious. The guy, never the friendly sort,  
was probably still peevish in the wake of  
the whole waterbed thing. Mulder held his  
breath and hoped whoever it was would  
go away.

Then another knock, slightly more  
insistent. Not going away. He'd have to  
say sorry to this guy. Even though he  
wasn't. Not that he was glad to be  
disturbing the neighbors, but, you know.  
Worth it. He climbed out of bed, tucked the  
covers around Scully who was beginning  
to stir, kissed her ear. He pulled on some  
jeans, wedged his holstered gun between  
his waistband and his spine because you  
never knew, and went to see what was  
what.

He peered through the peephole  
and immediately recognized the set of the  
shoulders inside the overcoat,  
simultaneously apologetic and  
authoritative, the thick neck and blunt  
profile as he swiveled his head, casing the  
hallway. Skinner.

He opened the door.

"Sir?"

"Agent Mulder."

They regarded one another for a  
moment. Mulder knew he should be  
alarmed, what with the very off-limits  
Scully a post-coital, ectoplasmic tangle in  
his bedroom, the door to which was not  
even closed, the air fogged with the tang  
of their sex, him still shirtless, their boss at  
the door. They were, quite possibly,  
busted. Yet Mulder stood there, not quite  
processing, sporting an expression not  
unlike that of an exsanguinated cow.

"Can I come in?" Skinner finally  
asked.

"Sure," Mulder said mildly,  
apparently recovering his capacity for  
speech as well as action. He opened the  
door and Skinner brushed by him.

"What's going on?" Mulder asked  
as he groped toward the end table where  
he set down his gun, switched on a lamp.

"I may be involved in a bit of a...  
situation," Skinner said, sinking down into  
the leather armchair.

Mulder slid onto the couch and  
discovered, wedged between the  
cushions, his undershirt Scully had peeled  
from his frame a few hours before. He  
pulled it on. At the moment his head  
popped through the neck hole, it occurred  
to him to wonder where her clothes were.  
He looked around, trying to be casual  
about it, and then he remembered: she'd  
undressed in the bedroom that evening.  
Dumb luck. But. Her purse was underneath  
the coffee table. Her coat hung companionably  
next to his on his coat rack. Whatever Skinner  
wanted, it wouldn't take Herculean leaps of  
deductive reasoning on his part to figure out  
at least that Mulder hadn't been passing this  
evening alone.

Fortunately Skinner eyeballing  
some printouts he'd brought with him. He  
seemed too preoccupied to have absorbed  
much of the data contained in his surroundings  
as of yet. Whatever Walter wanted, Mulder  
hoped to get rid of him before that changed.

"Do you happen to know where  
Agent Scully is?" Skinner asked, looking  
up from the file he was holding.

Shit. Questions were supposed to  
start easy and get harder. That was how it  
worked on quiz shows. Mulder looked at  
Skinner levelly and carefully selected the  
next words that came out of his mouth. "I  
can't say that I do, Sir."

"Because I've been trying to reach  
her. When I couldn't get her on the phone,  
I went by her place. She didn't seem to be  
there."

"Could she have been sleeping?"

"I made some noise. Woke a  
neighbor. I really need to find her."

"Is it something I can help you  
with?"

"I don't know. I need to talk to her  
first."

"What's going on?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. I was  
having a beer with a friend tonight. A man  
who possesses a high security clearance  
in the NSA and sometimes serves as a  
contact for me. We share information, as  
necessary. Have for years. He's someone  
I trust. We served together in Vietnam."

Mulder nodded.

"We were watching the Redskins  
get beat. When he got up to go to the  
bathroom, he fell back onto his barstool,  
dizzy. He seemed okay, but when he  
came back, he was having trouble seeing  
the game."

"Was he drunk?"

"No. Never has more than two  
beers."

"I see," Mulder said. He was  
beginning to see. "You're worried he's  
infected with the same virus that you were  
last year?"

Skinner nodded.

"Those were your initial symptoms  
exactly." Mulder's speed of cognition  
seemed to have been restored. "What  
happened next? Where is he now?"

"I took him to Memorial Hospital.  
They examined him and admitted him, did  
some preliminary blood work and an EKG.  
The EKG was fine, but they said there was  
an issue with the way the blood was  
clotting."

Skinner's chin was tucked and he  
was shaking his head ruefully as he  
spoke. Mulder knew that feeling, the  
helpless one you get when the people you  
love get badly hurt and you're vaguely  
certain that it's your fault somehow. And  
just when it would seem that you're just being  
grandiose or paranoid, but it turns out it  
is your fault. Sort of. Mulder himself  
liked to bitch out medical professionals,  
insult family members of the afflicted, plot  
revenge, and/or throw stuff around at a  
moment like this. He admired Skinner's  
restraint.

"Is that the blood work?" Mulder asked,  
gesturing the folder

"Yes. I have no idea if this clotting  
problem my friend is having is anything  
like the clotting problem I was having. I  
don't know enough about medicine to  
decipher what this says, even. Since  
Agent Scully followed my case so closely  
when I was sick, I was hoping she might  
take a look. I'm going to try her again."

He pulled out his cell phone and  
placed the call.

Mulder's mind whirred. Even if this  
man had been infected with the same  
stuff Skinner had, how could they help  
him? It remained a mystery how Skinner  
had recovered, after all. He wanted to quiz  
Skinner about that some more, but the  
problem of Scully, contraband Scully,  
happily snoozing in his bed a few short  
feet away, occupied him completely. He  
needed two contradictory things: to keep  
their secret, and to get these test results  
into her hands, ASAP. On the one hand,  
what would Skinner do if he found out?  
Split them up? Mulder had no idea. The  
other? No small thing, a man's life.

Skinner left another message on  
Scully's answering machine.

"Not home," he said, slipping his  
phone into his overcoat pocket.

Mulder sat there silently, nodding,  
tapping his fingers on his knee.

Skinner had relaxed a bit after  
spilling his story. He looked around the  
room for the first time. His eyes lingered  
on the coat rack, wandered back toward  
the couch and noted the purse on the  
floor. There were two water glasses, one  
smudged with lipstick, on the coffee table.  
And next to the water glasses, cell  
phones. Two. Side by side. Skinner  
leveled Mulder with a cool stare.

"Maybe I should try her cell again."  
Skinner said evenly, pointing almost  
imperceptibly with his chin toward the  
coffee table.

"Maybe." Mulder said in voice that  
sounded very far away, even to him, and  
studied his bare feet.

"That won't be necessary, Sir,"  
Scully said, having materialized at the  
very moment Mulder most wanted to  
disappear, his anti-matter, his love, he  
couldn't help but greet her with a grateful  
smile. She sat down next to him on the  
couch and shot him one wide-eyed,  
incredulous look before doing her best to  
assume a professional posture. She had  
managed to pull on most of her work  
clothes, but her hair, hastily tucked behind  
her ears, was unmistakably sexed up.  
Skinner suddenly seemed intrigued by  
Mulder's fish tank.

"I think I got most of that." Scully  
said, addressing Skinner. "Are those the  
lab reports?"

Her voice was thick with sex  
and sleep, but her movements were crisp  
as she accepted the file Skinner handed  
her. Her neck was red where it had been  
abraded by Mulder's late night stubble.  
Her lips were looking very, very kissed.

As Scully reviewed the results,  
Mulder's curiosity overcame his  
embarrassment and he peppered Skinner  
with questions about this contact, and just  
what kind of information he provided  
Skinner with, who might have a reason to  
want to hurt this man. Scully interrupted  
his questions with her own.

"Were you there when the Doctor  
examined your friend?"

"Yes. I stayed with him."

"Did you notice a bruise of the sort  
that you had on your ribcage when you  
became ill."

"No. And I looked him over pretty  
carefully, too. I was dreading I'd find one."

"Good," Scully said. That bruise  
and the veining that emanates from it  
seems to me to be the hallmark of the  
condition you developed."

"Uh huh. But what about the  
dizziness, and the vision problems?"

"Those symptoms can be caused  
by a myriad of problems, one of which is  
an ischemic stroke. The clotting problems  
indicated in this blood work can cause this  
type of cerebral event, which might occur  
when the blood has trouble clotting. The  
problem you had was that your blood  
clotted too readily, became sticky.  
Furthermore, your condition was caused  
by a contaminant in your blood, a foreign  
pathogen. That's a very different  
phenomenon from what I'm seeing here."

"So, you don't think my friend is  
infected with this thing?"

"I think your friend had a garden  
variety stroke, and if he didn't lose  
consciousness probably a mild one. They  
are pretty common among men in his  
demographic. Did they order an MRI?"

"They're doing that right now,"  
Skinner said.

"I think they will find a subdural  
bleed. It's quite serious, but there are  
good ways to treat for this. I can't say for  
sure, but I suspect his prognosis is  
reasonably good."

Skinner leaned back in his chair  
and exhaled. "That comes as quite a  
relief."

Mulder realized he was smiling  
idiotically, like a kid on his birthday, and  
ordered his face to resume displaying its  
customary deadpan expression.

"Do you want me to head down to  
Memorial and examine him, just to be  
sure?"

"No. Not if you're pretty confident in  
what you're seeing there. That shouldn't  
be necessary. And thank you, Agent  
Scully. I can't tell you how relieved I am."

"You're welcome, Sir. I'm glad to be  
of help."

An awkward silence settled among  
the three of them.

"Well," Skinner said, standing up.

"I'm going to get going. It was fortunate for  
me to find the two of you together.  
Working late."

"Yes, indeed," Mulder said. "That's  
us. Always workin'"

Scully pinned him with a sharp  
look. She was right, of course, a gift horse  
and all that. Still, he couldn't keep himself  
from gloating a little. He shut up.

Skinner stood up and Mulder rose  
to accompany him to the door. Scully  
followed close behind them.

"Are you going back to the hospital,  
Sir?"

"Yeah, I think I'll head back over  
there, see how he's doing."

"Give me a call if they didn't find a  
brain bleed on the MRI." Scully said.

"Yeah, I will." Skinner said, opening  
the door and turning around to face  
Mulder and Scully. "I'll call your cell  
phone."

"That might be the best way to get  
in touch with me," she said, nodding.  
Skinner gave them a bemused look, pursing  
his lips and shaking his head.

As soon as they closed the door  
and Skinner was out of earshot, Mulder went to  
grab her, but she shoved him in the chest.

"Always workin'?" she said.

He tried to smile apologetically, but  
kind of shrugged in the end.

They sat at his rarely used table  
and ate their burritos, Scully making  
sour faces and plucking shards of  
cilantro from her food, mumbling about her  
Nordic anscstors and Gregor Mendel.

"Did you the name cilantro comes  
from the Greek word for bedbug?" Mulder asked.

"Are you coming on to me?" Scully said.

Soon they were back in bed and  
Mulder was drifting again, swimming  
pleasantly in space and time. This liminal  
place between awake and asleep used to  
unsettle him. He'd finally quiet his  
galloping mind and twitchy body sufficiently  
so that he might start to nod off  
in front of the TV, and in a flash become  
aware that he was, in fact, moving, a  
single, singular dot among many in a  
whirling, inchoate universe. Feeling dizzy  
and hopelessly lost, he'd jerk awake  
myoclonically, pulse pounding, and have  
to start the process of falling all over  
again.

He liked it there lately, though, in  
the in between, feeling free to explore  
this place where questions were more important  
than answers, where the past, present,  
and future seemed to collapse and spin,  
where nothing was truly lost to him, or  
found. It felt good. It felt like his natural  
habitat.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love Skinner. 
> 
> He’s my way in to the Xfiles. 
> 
> He’s no hero. He’s a witness. Just a guy with an eye for the extraordinary. With regular person problems and a pension to protect, trying to do the right thing...
> 
> Of course, the brain trust mashed him under a car. Because, of course they did. 
> 
> Assholes. 
> 
> That’s all.


End file.
